


burn bright

by myrosebudboy



Category: Carry On - Fandom, Rainbow Rowell - Fandom, Snowbaz - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5276822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrosebudboy/pseuds/myrosebudboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>also alternately titled: “i love parallels and the idea of natasha calling baz ‘ty’</p>
            </blockquote>





	burn bright

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: a little fic about baz. that’s pretty much it. i just wanted to write something about him because i adore writing from his point of view (whether i do that well is another matter) and also because i have a lot of feelings about natasha and baz. and snowbaz. of course.
> 
> see how many parallels you can spot

_you burn bright and glorious, tyrannus,_ the voice swirls in his head, reassuring and warm. _you make us proud._

he wakes up to the sound of children crying and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more heartwrenching sound, but he doesn’t really know anything because he’s only five, and everything is hot and burning and bright and his mother is burning and bright and someone picks him up and he’s crying, too, screaming mum-mum! because he’s only five and he’s so confused and then he feels a sharp pain and then

 _you are a spark, tyrannus,_ he hears, whispered softly in his ear and hovering through his memories. _you are bright and burning and fierce and you are meant for great things._

he wakes up in the middle of the night at seven years old, fangs out, soaked with sweat and breathing hard, because the dark things are swooping in again and there are too many of them and he can’t sense himself among the nothingness any more.

 _ty, my darling, my fire,_ she says, tickling his stomach, and his baby laughter echoes through his mind like a sound in a large hollow cave. _who’s my star?_

he’s nine and the wind is blowing especially strong today and he’s with his father in the library, excitedly giggling as his father gently sets him on a couch near the window (”look baz, see those clouds? do you know what silver linings are?”) and goes to get a book because baz loves being read to, and then the wind rushes through the window too much too quickly and the large gold ornately carved candelabrum by the window (because of course they are a household that still has candelabras) falls onto its side and of course, of course it hits the thick curtains and the heat freezes him to where he’s sitting and his father is shouting and all he can think is he’s so afraid as his father yells “make a wish!”, his voice like thunder, and the fire goes out with a huge whoosh and he’s left shivering on the window seat.

 _look, ty,_ she says, _see how the sparks dance?_

the night air is crisp and it’s a beautiful day in november and his family’s friends have invited them over for a small party and his father tells him quietly that he should come with them, because it will be good for him to interact with other people, especially other people his age. (of course, his main goal is to create ties, connections between the families, because they’re treading a fine line here and it’s always better to have a safety net to fall back on.) everything’s fine until the other children pull him outside into the november air. at eleven he’s one of the youngest among them and he sees their laughing faces as they try to start a small fire with a pile of sticks and hears their cheers of joy as the sparklers they hold in their hands dip and twirl through the air, leaving sprays of sparks in their wake. they trace patterns and words and letters and through all the smoke and the happiness no one notices him standing out of sight behind the shed, wishing more than anything to join them. 

_see that, ty?_ he lifts his little pudgy arms towards the sparks, and she quickly holds him back. _one day, my sweet. you will rule the flames, too._

it’s his birthday and he’s finally thirteen but his father is out at some fancy meeting with the other ‘great’ families to settle some petty dispute and everyone else moves silently around the house. he spends most of the day in his room and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall sounds through the house and it’s cold, everything is cold (even though he can’t really feel it) and no one seems to even remember that he turns thirteen today, that he’s officially a teenager today. and the only thing he receives is a card limp from the light drizzle outside from dev and niall who are staying together at niall’s over the holidays with a scrawled ‘happy birthday’ on it and a badly wrapped gift of a book he’s really wanted and he’s happy, of course, but alone in a dark mansion with the realisation that you will never be able to have birthday candles again prevents any light from really coming in. and so he sits on his bed and in the dark and reads his new book and listens to the grandfather clock ticking slowly away and chiming every hour and all he can think is that maybe thirteen really is a number with a curse. 

_you will burn brightly, my boy,_ she whispers to him proudly. _you will bring honour to our family. i know you will._

he’s fifteen and he’s so confused and hurting and so angry at everything in the world because that’s what teenagers do, don’t they? and simon bloody snow is so fucking oblivious it’s the shittiest thing he’s ever known and he hates it, hates him, hates himself for ever loving simon. but he is in love and he’s actually head over heels in love and he despises it, loathes it with a vicious fury, because he needs to kill this stupid, stupid boy. because he’s the mage’s kid and he’s a son of the pitches and he needs to do what’s right, do what his family needs him to do, no matter what. because he’s a vampire. because he’s a monster, he’s a _thing_ , and the least he can do is pay them what he owes, restore himself, at whatever cost. but simon snow is impossible to ignore, like a solar flare that lasts forever, and he crowley, hormones are the most idiotic thing he wishes he doesn’t have. because simon snow is so pure and so innocent and so good that he’s like a magnet drawing baz in and he can’t stand it. and so he hisses at simon and lashes out at him during the day and he slips out to the catacombs and the wavering wood at night because he can’t bear to sleep so close to him. and there is a fire burning in his heart day and night but it’s nothing near anything baz knows or anything he can control. and baz has always been so sure of himself but all he knows is that his chest hurts and his head hurts and he just wants it to _stop_. 

_see?_ she says, flicking her fingers and letting one, two, three sparks escape and making sure they’re far out of his reach as he tries to eat them. _isn’t it pretty?_

seventeen years old, and everything has changed. they’ve both grown taller. they’ve both taken to starting to sleep shirtless with their window shut, now, because their curtain always knocks over their ever-growing mess on top of their dresser and baz is sick of it smacking into his face at night whenever the wind blows. they’ve both grown taller. they’ve both grown into a tired wariness rather than a hostile annoyance around each other. they’ve stopped complaining about little things, now, like how simon used to roll his eyes at ‘the amount of time you take in the shower is ridiculous, snow’ and a harshly flung ‘can you shut up?’ at any small taunt baz throws at him. and it’s been nearly six years of dealing with this, but still, almost nothing has changed. he’s still wary of fire. simon snow still hates him. he still loves him. simon still goes off. he still eats in the catacombs. almost nothing has changed. baz wonders if it ever will, if he’ll spend his life hearing about the mage’s heir and feeling like his heart shrivels up every time, curling darkly in flames that he can’t go near. and he thinks this might be the fire that takes him down. and so they go in circles, around and around again, and maybe someday, baz thinks, one of them will finally snap and simon will kill him or he will kill simon or they’ll both go down trying. seventeen years old, and nothing has changed, and baz wishes so badly that he can spell himself out of this mess. 

_make a wish on them, ty._ she laughs with him as he giggles at the sparks floating around them. _make a wish!_

_**“make a wish!”**_ he screams, holding his wand as steady as he’s ever held it, because he’s never been more sure of anything in his life. his head is clear, his vision is sharp, and he’s never felt more alive. 

simon snow places his hands on baz’s chest, eyes glimmering in the firelight, and full of warmth and faith, and baz thinks that maybe that’s the only fire he’ll ever really need. simon’s magic gushes into him, and he feels like he could do anything, and he yells “make a wish!”, his voice like thunder, and the fire goes out with a huge whoosh and he’s left shivering on the forest floor with simon snow’s hands pressed against him and the fire in his chest has died down into softly glowing embers. 

nineteen years old, and he’s finally home.


End file.
